Mrs Osbourne Regrets

1

August 1958

My life began to unravel on the day my daughter announced her engagement.  I’d had no idea things would turn out so dreadful when, over breakfast, Daphne asked if she could invite Duncan to tea that afternoon. Not wishing to appear eager or intrusive, I did not ask my daughter what the occasion was, but secretly hoped the young man she’d met last year during her Season had asked her to become his wife. While my own life had become somewhat stagnant in recent years, my daughter becoming a debutante had enlivened our home once more. Every other day she enthralled me with her tales of the balls and charity events she’d attended. Duncan Wilkinson was the son of Horace Wilkinson, MP for Reading and his mother was Lady Clare Fenton. Clare was the only living child of the Duke of Berkshire, which meant, as Duncan was the only son, one day my daughter would enter into the aristocracy. Something most mothers could only dream of.

It was good to know one of my daughters was behaving in a respectable manner. Natalie, my youngest served to be nothing but an embarrassment with each passing day. At just sixteen, she considered herself grown up enough to decide the path she wanted to take in life without intervention from her father or myself. On the last day of term she’d declared she was leaving St Bennett’s and was going to art school in Paddington. I could have tolerated that, had it not been accompanied by her friendships with inappropriate young men she met on the Kings Road - longhaired beatniks who smoked strangely coloured cigarettes and quoted French writers. It was becoming a common occurrence at coffee mornings to be taken to one side by a friend who would quietly inform me they’d seen my daughter kissing a man twice her age in broad daylight. Frankly I could not wait for her to move into the flat in Notting Hill she was going to rent with one of her unsuitable female friends. I was her mother and would love her forever, but I had a position in society and could not bear for my own offspring to jeopardise all I had worked for.

I was thankful that today she was out and I could entertain Duncan and Daphne in peace. I was hoping Charles would be home in time to join us but as usual he was caught up in parliamentary business. My husband was the MP for Hardwell - some little hamlet in Lancashire but thankfully his visits there were limited to once a fortnight when he held his surgeries. The thought of moving north filled me with dread and horror and I was glad we could remain in Eaton Square.

By the time Mrs Laine, the housekeeper, served tea, there was no sign of Charles and I realised I had to give up on my husband being here to witness our child’s happy day. Duncan was such a lovely young man; well-connected, polite and not handsome in any way. I had no worries of him every becoming a ladies man, cheating on my daughter and causing social embarrassment. He was a solid, dependable fellow and I knew he would make Daphne nothing but happy.

‘This really is a super angel cake Mrs Osbourne,’ he said.

‘Call me Diana,’ I said. ‘We’re practically family after all.’

‘Mummy!’ Daphne scolded, blushing into her tea cup with a playful smile.

‘W-Well, yes,’ Duncan stammered, his expression becoming most earnest. ‘That was the reason why we wanted tea with you this afternoon Mrs….Diana. I’ve approached your husband about the subject and he was most supportive and so I’ve asked Daphne if she will become my wife.’

‘And I said yes!’ Daphne beamed.

‘Oh my darling,’ I smiled, clasping my hands together in delight. ‘Congratulations. I wish your father were here now. Have you any dates in mind?’

‘We thought next summer,’ Daphne said. ‘And we’d like to have the wedding in Frimmington. I know it breaks with tradition to marry in the groom’s village, but Frimmington Hall is so much more suitable for a reception.’